


The Eighth

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [8]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Drunkenness, Episode: s04e13 Praimfaya - Time Jump, F/M, Falling In Love, Falling in love through trauma, Finding New Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, attempting to move on, canonverse, spacekru, stages of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: And for a fleeting second he catches it; the smell of fresh grass and steely gunpowder that he associates with Clarke. Then it’s gone and his nostrils are filled with damp and body odor. He lets the bedding fall in a crumpled heap in his lap. Willing himself to breathe steadily. Echo’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder and he reaches for it, craving human contact.“You still love her.”A Bellarke/Becho oneshot for Writer's Month 2020. Prompt 8: eight.This fic is definitely pro Bellarke and pro Becho and it explores a little of Bellamy's complicated feelings for both women.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Echo
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863823
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	The Eighth

**Author's Note:**

> Just want to reiterate, that this fic is pro Bellarke and pro Becho. I believe that in canon, Bellamy loves both women and I wanted to explore some of the moments that led to him letting go of Clarke and falling for Echo.
> 
> (I guess this isn't exactly canon compliant in light of the s7 flashback, but meh...)

The first time Echo flirts with him, Bellamy’s too shocked to do anything other than absorb it and move on. He doesn’t even remember nodding in acknowledgement before brushing past her with a muttered excuse about latrine duty. He remembers better Raven’s sympathetic smile and the way her and Echo bend their heads together whispering over their algae bowls.

The second time Echo flirts with him, he makes sure to give her a smile, however absent it might be. They’re sparring on the mats and she manages to flip him head over heels, reversing his own full body throw. They end up caught in a tangled double somersault and they land on top of each other, nose to nose and breathing hard. Bellamy laughs and offers some sort of wry quip. He doesn’t expect the way Echo blinks a little faster, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she hesitantly tosses out some innuendo of her own. He helps her up from the mats with a slight smile, but he decides not to mention it as they towel off before dinner. She’s obviously just been hanging around Murphy too often.

The third time Echo flirts with him, it’s a bad night. They’re drinking, getting tipsy off of the fumes they pretend are alcohol from Monty’s still. They’re passing their cups around, toasting the anniversary of Praimfaya and none of them are quite sensible. Monty is already crying and Raven is practically snarling at anyone who looks at her. Echo is playing some sort of drinking game with Bellamy and he’s extremely foggy on the rules. He watches as her head bobs down into her shallow bowl of moonshine, long brown hair cascading off of her shoulders. He feels a complacent warmth and he wonders what she would do if he reached over and twirled a strand of it around his fingers. His hand is already stretching out towards her, seemingly floating on its own accord, when she resurfaces with a shiny, silver disc clamped between her teeth. Some sort of washer taken from Raven’s workbench. But Bellamy is suddenly wrenched through time, to another night painted in vivid orange and green. Watching from across a clearing of drunk delinquents as Clarke downs a cup of moonshine and triumphantly displays a coin between her teeth. The firelight dances against her golden hair and Bellamy snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned. Not Clarke. Echo, looking up at him with a mixture of concern and fear. He realizes too late that he’s yelling. Yelling at Echo, for some indiscernible reason. She doesn’t shrink away from his words, but her shoulders go rigid and the edges of her cheekbones grow pink and Bellamy decides to storm out before things get any worse. He’s chased by the ghost of a laughing green-eyed girl.

The fourth time Echo flirts with him, he’s not sure it counts as flirting. They’re doing laundry together, unrolling all the bedding and scrubbing it down with stiff metallic pads and powdered deodorant. Bellamy pauses on the eighth bed roll, the extra one they pass back and forth as needed. He’s not sure why his hands are trembling as he smoothes out the creases of the sleeping bag and tries to force himself to sprinkle the powder on top. It’s been years since she touched it. Years since her hair lay fanned out along the upper edge, like an extra layer of spun silk. There’s no possible way it could hold any scent of her anymore. Yet he can’t fight the urge to set down his canister of powder and hold the bedding up to his nose. And for a fleeting second he catches it; the smell of fresh grass and steely gunpowder that he associates with Clarke. Then it’s gone and his nostrils are filled with damp and body odor. He lets the bedding fall in a crumpled heap in his lap. Willing himself to breathe steadily. Echo’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder and he reaches for it, craving human contact.

“You still love her.”

It’s not a question, not even a hint of one, so he doesn’t even try to answer. Instead he leans into her arm and tries to will himself to cry. Echo doesn’t say anything else, but she tightens her slender arms around him and he blinks his hot, dry eyelids into her sleeve and he thinks that maybe, maybe he has someone who might understand. Maybe he can survive this after all.

The fifth time Echo flirts with him is a necessity. Another Praimfaya anniversary, come and gone. Another round of drinks, numbing his throat and his heart all at once. Another vigil at the window, staring down at a desolate planet. Bellamy doesn’t know how to feel anymore. Barely knows how to think. He drinks another shot and leans his forehead against the glass, trying to block out the frantic memories crowding at the edges of his mind. A panicked dash through ashes, piled around his legs like snow. The pounding of his heart as he leans out of the hatch, waiting and hoping and desperately trying not to vomit against the inside of his helmet. The empty chair, seat belt swinging loosely as the rocket takes off. He’s startled out of the spiral of memories by Echo, sliding to sit next to him, empty cup dangling from her fingers. Her eyes are questioning and he doesn’t have to answer with words. That’s the nice thing about Echo, she’s perceptive. The others all want to talk, but Echo wants to act. She runs her hand through his hair, tracing down the back of his taut neck and he relaxes into her touch. He begs her with his eyes to help him feel again. Feel anything but the mindless panic. She answers.

The sixth time Echo flirts with him, Bellamy flirts back. Over the dinner table in front of everyone. Raven drops her spoon with a loud clatter and Murphy and Emori have some kind of frantically whispered exchange that ends with Murphy looking very smug. Echo’s eyes are wide and her lips press together firmly as she tilts her head at him. Challenging. Testing him in the space between their stares. He meets her gaze, knowingly. Yes, this is real. Yes, I want this. She gives him a coy smile and they go back to laughing with the others. But there’s something still a little sad dancing at the corners of her mouth. Something like the sadness he feels in the back of his throat. 

The seventh time Echo flirts with him, Bellamy pulls her into a kiss. Something warm and passionate and real. He can taste her breath on his lips. Feel her skin under his rough palms. He can stop chasing a ghost because there’s someone in front of him that demands - deserves - every piece of him. And if there are holes in his soul, Echo already knows. She knows and yet, she loves him.

First or second chances. Or third or fourth. More than that. Bellamy’s lost count over the years of how many times he’s cheated death. How many times they’ve all cheated death. And yet, this one takes his breath away.

“She must be pretty important to you.”

Six years of mourning, fighting, numbness… it washes away under the flickering firelight as he stands facing down an army of guns, a painted coffee mug clasped tight in his hand. The prison ship leader is still staring him down, a tight, calculating smile on her face. But all Bellamy can see is the huddled figure at the edge of the firelight, golden hair bright against the vivid green grass. All he can think, she’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive…

“She is.”


End file.
